High on a throne of royal state, which farOutshone the wealth of Ormus and of Ind,Or where the gorgeous East with richest handShowers on her kings barbaric pearl and gold,Satan exalted sat, by merit raisdTo that bad eminence.

With graveAspect he rose, and in his rising seemdA pillar of state; deep on his front engravenDeliberation sat, and public care;And princely counsel in his face yet shone,Majestic though in ruin: sage he stood,With Atlantean shoulders, fit to bearThe weight of mightiest monarchies; his lookDrew audience and attention still as nightOr summers noontide air.

In discourse more sweet;For eloquence the soul, song charms the sense.Others apart sat on a hill retird,In thoughts more elevate, and reasond highOf providence, foreknowledge, will, and fate,Fixd fate, free-will, foreknowledge absolute;And found no end, in wandring mazes lost.

A gulf profound as that Serbonian bogBetwixt Damiata and Mount Casius old,Where armies whole have sunk: the parching airBurns frore, and cold performs th effect of fire.Thither by harpy-footed Furies hald,At certain revolutions all the damndAre brought, and feel by turns the bitter changeOf fierce extremes,extremes by change more fierce;From beds of raging fire to starve in iceTheir soft ethereal warmth, and there to pineImmovable, infixd, and frozen round,Periods of time; thence hurried back to fire.

The other shape,If shape it might be calld that shape had noneDistinguishable in member, joint, or limb;Or substance might be calld that shadow seemd,For each seemd either,black it stood as night,Fierce as ten furies, terrible as hell,And shook a dreadful dart; what seemd his headThe likeness of a kingly crown had on.Satan was now at hand.

Thus with the yearSeasons return; but not to me returnsDay, or the sweet approach of even or morn,Or sight of vernal bloom or summers rose,Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine;But cloud instead, and ever-during darkSurrounds me; from the cheerful ways of menCut off, and for the book of knowledge fairPresented with a universal blankOf Natures works, to me expungd and razd,And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out.

Which way shall I flyInfinite wrath and infinite despair?Which way I fly is hell; myself am hell;And in the lowest deep a lower deep,Still threatning to devour me, opens wide,To which the hell I suffer seems a heaven.

For contemplation he and valour formd,For softness she and sweet attractive grace;He for God only, she for God in him.His fair large front and eye sublime declardAbsolute rule; and hyacinthine locksRound from his parted forelock manly hungClustering, but not beneath his shoulders broad.

Now came still evening on, and twilight grayHad in her sober livery all things clad;Silence accompanyd; for beast and bird,They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale;She all night long her amorous descant sung;Silence was pleasd. Now glowd the firmamentWith living sapphires; Hesperus, that ledThe starry host, rode brightest, till the moon,Rising in clouded majesty, at lengthApparent queen unveild her peerless light,And oer the dark her silver mantle threw.

With thee conversing I forget all time,All seasons, and their change,all please alike.Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet,With charm of earliest birds; pleasant the sunWhen first on this delightful land he spreadsHis orient beams on herb, tree, fruit, and flower,Glistring with dew; fragrant the fertile earthAfter soft showers; and sweet the coming onOf grateful evning mild; then silent nightWith this her solemn bird and this fair moon,And these the gems of heaven, her starry train:But neither breath of morn when she ascendsWith charm of earliest birds, nor rising sunOn this delightful land, nor herb, fruit, flower,Glistring with dew, nor fragrance after showers,Nor grateful evning mild, nor silent nightWith this her solemn bird, nor walk by moonOr glittering starlight, without thee is sweet.

She what was honour knew,And with obsequious majesty approvdMy pleaded reason. To the nuptial bowerI led her blushing like the morn; all heavenAnd happy constellations on that hourShed their selectest influence; the earthGave sign of gratulation, and each hill;Joyous the birds; fresh gales and gentle airsWhisperd it to the woods, and from their wingsFlung rose, flung odours from the spicy shrub.

Some natural tears they droppd, but wipd them soon;The world was all before them, where to chooseTheir place of rest, and Providence their guide.They hand in hand, with wandring steps and slow,Through Eden took their solitary way.

But who is this, what thing of sea or land,Female of sex it seems,That so bedeckd, ornate, and gay,Comes this way sailingLike a stately shipOf Tarsus, bound for th islesOf Javan or Gadire,With all her bravery on, and tackle trim,Sails filld, and streamers waving,Courted by all the winds that hold them play,An amber scent of odorous perfumeHer harbinger?

Virtue could see to do what virtue wouldBy her own radiant light, though sun and moonWere in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdoms selfOft seeks to sweet retired solitude,Where with her best nurse ContemplationShe plumes her feathers and lets grow her wings,That in the various bustle of resortWere all-to ruffled, and sometimes impaird.He that has light within his own clear breastMay sit i th centre and enjoy bright day;But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughtsBenighted walks under the midday sun.

Some say no evil thing that walks by night,In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen,Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghostThat breaks his magic chains at curfew time,No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine,Hath hurtful power oer true virginity.

So dear to heavn is saintly chastity,That when a soul is found sincerely so,A thousand liveried angels lackey her,Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt,And in clear dream and solemn visionTell her of things that no gross ear can hear,Till oft converse with heavnly habitantsBegin to cast a beam on th outward shape.

The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it,But in another country, as he said,Bore a bright golden flowr, but not in this soil;Unknown, and like esteemd, and the dull swainTreads on it daily with his clouted shoon.

It is for homely features to keep home,They had their name thence; coarse complexionsAnd cheeks of sorry grain will serve to plyThe sampler and to tease the huswifes wool.What need a vermeil-tincturd lip for that,Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?

Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise17(That last infirmity of noble mind)To scorn delights, and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind Fury with th abhorred shearsAnd slits the thin-spun life.

I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven green,To behold the wandering moonRiding near her highest noon,Like one that had been led astrayThrough the heavns wide pathless way;And oft, as if her head she bowd,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous humRuns through the arched roof in words deceiving. Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine,With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.No nightly trance or breathed spellInspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

What needs my Shakespeare for his honourd bones,The labour of an age in piled stones?Or that his hallowd relics should be hidUnder a star-y-pointing pyramid?Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,What needst thou such weak witness of thy name?

By labour and intent study (which I take to be my portion in this life), joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to after times as they should not willingly let it die.

I shall detain you no longer in the demonstration of what we should not do, but straight conduct ye to a hillside, where I will point ye out the right path of a virtuous and noble education; laborious indeed at the first ascent, but else so smooth, so green, so full of goodly prospect and melodious sounds on every side that the harp of Orpheus was not more charming.

In those vernal seasons of the year, when the air is calm and pleasant, it were an injury and sullenness against Nature not to go out and see her riches, and partake in her rejoicing with heaven and earth.

I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks; methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam.

Though all the winds of doctrine were let loose to play upon the earth, so Truth be in the field, we do ingloriously, by licensing and prohibiting, to misdoubt her strength. Let her and Falsehood grapple: who ever knew Truth put to the worse in a free and open encounter?21

By this time, like one who had set out on his way by night, and travelled through a region of smooth or idle dreams, our history now arrives on the confines, where daylight and truth meet us with a clear dawn, representing to our view, though at a far distance, true colours and shapes.

Note 17.Erant quibus appetentior famæ videretur, quando etiam sapientibus cupido gloriæ novissima exuitur (Some might consider him as too fond of fame, for the desire of glory clings even to the best of men longer than any other passion) [said of Helvidius Priscus].Tacitus: Historia, iv. 6. [back]